BBC Sherlock: Working Backwards
by Wynsom
Summary: A look backwards: About a year before TRF, Sherlock and John share an adventure to discover the connections between a ghost story and the case of eleven inebriated men. At the same time, the detective and the doctor discover significant connections between their working relationship and meaningful friendship. No fluff nor slash, but insights abound. As usual, all disclaimers apply.
1. Chapter 1

**_Working Backwards_**

_"In solving a problem of this sort, the grand thing is to be able to reason backwards."_

_Sherlock Holmes _-A Study in Scarlet

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**Prologue May 2011***

Pale sunlight through spring leaves in a muted sky was the first thing John noticed. The next was Sherlock, an arm's length away, wrapped in his greatcoat, seated with his back against a large gnarly sycamore trunk, fingers tented under chin, and eyes closed in thought.

"Sherlock?" John snapped alert, keenly aware he was lying on his back under the same tree. The hard earth was cool, lumpy, and uncomfortable through his jacket and trousers, whilst overhead in the treetops, chirping birds were loudly holding parliament and proclaiming daybreak. "Where are we?"

One grey-blue eye opened in his direction, then closed. Although weary, his soft voice was also amused. "Don't you remember?"

John squinted and lifted his head. The sudden onset of dizziness forced him to return it gently where it had been resting on the improvised pillow of Sherlock's scarf. "Russell Square Park!" He had caught a glimpse over his shoe tops of the frothy park fountain and joggers running past; some passers-by strode with purpose on the pavement paying no mind to the two men reclining under the tree. The quick view helped him orient himself. John knew the Duke of Bedford statue was just behind them. "How did we get here?"

"Long story." Eyelids stayed shut as Sherlock grunted and swiveled his head to loosen up kinks in his neck. A grin edged his lips. "Don't want to bore you."

Suppressing a groan, John realized his cloudy recollections were symptomatic of something he couldn't quite grasp. Threats of vertigo diminished as long as he kept his eyes open and didn't move his head too quickly. However, standing was certainly out of the question for the moment.

"Okay gimme," the bleary-eyed man caved to his own curiosity. "There must be some good reason, Sherlock, why the _bloody hell_ we are sleeping rough in the middle of Russell Square Park."

oOo

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_*Author's Note: Contradictory information within the BBC series makes establishing a reliable time frame difficult. For the purpose of this story, the events take place in May of 2011—definitely before the events in Reichenbach Falls. My apologies to anyone who disagrees with this story placement, although it is necessary for the plot, as you shall see. _

_Special thanks to some amazing people I've met in FF, particularly englishtutor and Honourable._


	2. Chapter 2 Long Story: PART ONE

**The Long Story:** **PART ONE**

Above the fragile crystal merchandise in The Brunswick Shopping Centre gift shop, a _**Do Not Touch **_sign gave warning. John Watson had walked past the shelf without a second glance at the ornate items. He did not suffer from impulses to examine everything, unlike Sherlock Holmes, for whom the boldface sign resonated.

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_**Do Not Touch.**_ During his boyhood, that particular warning had held multiple meanings. It had been used often enough to protect him or shield something fragile from harm; he heard it from his protective parents, from bossy Mycroft, and in primary school.

_**Do Not Touch?**_ Prone as a child to overstimulation and extreme behaviors_—_which childhood specialists had diagnosed as a borderline spectrum disorder and heightened sensitivity_—_the compulsive boy latched onto this cautionary phrase for help. Could it work to guide him? He rephrased it as a question for many challenges he faced in boyhood and felt it worked to rein in those passions spurred by his obsessive nature.

_**Do Not Touch.**_ After he had lost Redbeard, his beloved Red Setter, the young Sherlock was overwhelmed by his immeasurable grief because he had permitted love into his heart. He swore he would never make that mistake again. He would rather care _less_ than be disadvantaged by caring. Over time and with practice, he used self-control and isolation techniques to withhold his affections from everyone.

_**Do Not Touch.**_ As he entered his impressionable teens, the genius boy found the method to tuck away all memories of his long-lost canine friend and detach from any lingering sentiment. Utilizing the scientific method—the discipline of the analytical mind untainted by emotions—in his daily routines, the teenager chose to disconnect sentimental involvement with his peers altogether. Respect he earned through his prodigious talents, but he no longer cared what others thought of him on a personal level. This decision freed the prodigy from feeling distressed over emotional misunderstandings caused by his inability to respond 'normally' to social cues.

The more he honed his observable skills through analytical detachment and cool reason, the better his powers of deduction became. Finally, as he mastered his genius abilities, he altered his mantra slightly: _**Do Not Touch—Me! **_No one would be allowed in. No one would steal his heart. He had locked it away.

This crusade gave him many years of success, convincing him he had indeed eradicated feelings for others and redirected his strong passions to devotion to his work. Under the banner of _**Do Not Touch—Me!**_, he cultivated an arrogant and haughty demeanor that repelled any who made the foolish attempt to form attachments. His mind stayed clear and focused. No fog of feelings distracted him. From that point forward, whenever he saw that warning anywhere, it kept him disciplined. It reinforced his commitment to the strict principles of logic and deductive reasoning.

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Upon entering the gift shop in the Shopping Centre, Sherlock welcomed the reset button of the _**Do Not Touch **_sign. He sensed sentiment was lately threatening an unprecedented comeback, ever since he had accepted the likeable John Watson into his flat and work five months before.

"G'Morning! May I assist you?" A fashionably dressed, attractive brunette in her late twenties approached John with curiosity in her sparkling hazel eyes and a broad smile of white teeth. She cut a slender figure in her black mini skirt topped by a teal-colored blouse, over which she wore a black faux-leather Bomber jacket with a white fur collar. Her high heels added two inches to her height.

Sherlock heard the subtle hitch in his partner's breathing rhythms and noticed those telltale shoulders assume proper military posture under his black Haversack. The doctor obviously found _this_ appealing.

_John is so transparent_. Sherlock suppressed a grin.

"Well, yes." Matching her smile with his own, John's voice was deep, smooth, and gentlemanly, his gaze riveted upon the lovely face. "We're here to see Lily Lauder. This is Sherlock Holmes," he gestured**,** barely pulling his eyes away. "I'm John Watson."

"Oh! I was hoping you'd come!" The petite saleswoman's façade swiftly faded from the polite welcome to deep concern, whilst her eyes darted to check her surroundings. "You're certainly punctual. I'm Lily. I have a mystery that needs solving…. Wait. Please," she beckoned them toward the back of the store where she could still keep an eye on the front door for shoppers. "I know there aren't any other customers right now," she whispered, "but it's better here; just a little more private."

Attentively John followed; Sherlock, appearing less interested with the potential client's mystery, dawdled. He leaned over a glass case to inspect the jewelry and glanced across the shelves at the delicate vases and artisan pottery before joining them.

"I called you because I want to report a ghost sighting." Lily fumbled for the smartphone from her jacket pocket and flipped through her photo gallery. "Look!" She thrust the phone brusquely toward John. "The police refuse to take this seriously. They don't believe me."

"What am I looking at?" John remained polite and steadied the young lady's hand to see the image. Four young women, one was Lily, had crammed together for the photo. In the tilted still, they were smiling sweetly and winking at the camera.

"Took this selfie on Friday evening!"

"Sorry? A _what_?"

"A self-portrait on the camera phone. Dunno, that's what _we're_ calling it lately," Lily raised one eyebrow, as though surprised she needed to explain something so basic, but continued with her story. "Me and the girls, we were going to a do nearby on Friday, after work. Having a bit of fun, you know, in the face of superstition. The 13th—the only one this year, they say." She pulled the smartphone back from John's hand to spread the image for a closer focus, "and this was in the background. Here! Creepy, huh?" Tapping on the screen, Lily handed John the phone so he could look freely and show it to Sherlock.

John blushed as he struggled to decipher the grossly pixelated image. His _faux pas_ with the slang of someone nearly twenty years his junior was bad enough, but now even the photo was a challenge. Sherlock hardly gave it a glance.

"A face!" Lily grew quickly exasperated by their slow response. "We were passing the corner on Guilford Place near Coram's Fields Nursery heading to Conduit Street—hadn't decided on The Lamb or Italian Restaurant. That's when we passed the building, you know the one that's been empty for a while? Maybe it's been sold; anyway, it's not really spooky from the outside. I've passed it often on my way to work, but never thought much about it until I saw this child's face. You see. It looks to be crying. My friends insisted the area is haunted by dead children. Everyone knows there used to be a home for abandoned children around here."

"Media news recently reported your claim." For the first time since they entered the gift shop, Sherlock spoke. "Let me quote: _A mysterious 'ghost child's face'has been spotted at an abandoned former orphanage, spooking locals before dusk on Friday, 13th May. Concerned passers-by raised the alarm and took a photo. The image shows what might be a face of a child crying in the window of the empty building_." Recalling the newsbrief verbatim was no effort for his keen memory.

"Yes! Yes!" Lily nodded her head, pleased that Sherlock had caught the media coverage. "I know it sounds mad, but it's real and true. We all heard the kid cry. All _four _of us saw it in the window. If the building hadn't been sitting empty for months and the area didn't have a reputation for being haunted, we might've gone in to look for ourselves."

"Why …?" John began with a kindly shrug, "Why would something like this happen? You really think it was a ghost and not an actual child?

Sherlock smiled faintly hearing his partner's questions; a revelation brightened his face.

Lily had a different response: doubt flickered in her eyes. "We assumed Friday the 13th had something to do with it. It seemed coincidental, because we were talking about superstitions and things that scared us when we were kids. And by the time we grabbed someone else to look, the face in the window had vanished. A bit later, I saw this image in my phone."

"A new spin to the _ghost in the machine_, Descartes' theory of body/mind dualism…" Sherlock mused. "Now we have the ghost in a selfie!"

John threw Sherlock a stern expression that the detective recognized all too easily. _Be kind,_ the doctor was trying to convey with raised eyebrows and tongue poking the inside of his cheek. John was assuming (and _under ordinary circumstances _rightly so) that because the Great Sherlock Holmes disdained investigating UFO or ghost sightings, the detective was prepared to crush the woman's story and her self-esteem with the harshest rebuke.

Yet, Sherlock Holmes didn't utter a sound. He had withdrawn into his Mind Palace to find and sort related facts that had been stored prior to their visit to the gift shop. This 'ghost face' was connected to those recent events, but it would require more investigation outside his memory before he would have the details he needed.

When Sherlock reemerged, Lily was looking directly at him, her face a mix of wonder and confusion at his trancelike state. Whilst she had been speaking with John, Sherlock studied her for signs of lying. Even now, she did not waver as he observed her dilated pupils, her rosy cheeks flushed with excitement, her lips parted, preparing to plead her case further if need be. More revealing than her words was the confidence with which she moved, the natural gestures of her hands, her self-assured posture, and authentic tone of voice. _She believes what she saw, _Sherlock decided. _She is telling the truth, the truth as she perceives it—even though it certainly cannot be true._

"Mr. Holmes. I swear I saw it…this ghost!" Lily insisted before she broke eye contact and looked toward the front of the shop. "Please take my case?"

John winced in anticipation of Sherlock's reply.

"Taken," Sherlock remarked flatly.

"Huh? Right!" John recovered visibly, breathing a sigh of relief. A grin he could not mask followed as he shot a quizzical glance toward the detective. "Okay, well then. That's that." John clapped his hands and rocked on his heels.

Sherlock squinted at his partner who was mumbling inanities as if he were the client who needed approval. _Must counsel John to keep a greater perspective on our cases; he feels the clients' pain too acutely. Being sympathetic clouds the mind_**_;_** _he must remain clear if he is to understand the cold hard facts._

"Ms. Lauder," Sherlock instructed. "You have my contact info. Forward to me all the photos you took that day in that vicinity. If your friends also took photos, I want to see them. In fact, include any photos taken previously or since in that same vicinity."

Lily only nodded, apparently struck speechless by his sudden, intense interest in her story.

Without another word, Sherlock turned and strode toward the exit.

"That's it?" Lily asked an equally-puzzled John.

With his hand on the door latch**,** Sherlock turned his head and spoke over his shoulder. "You have nothing further to offer. Am I right?"

About ready to protest, Lily hesitated. "Don't you want to hear about…?"

"Not necessary." Sherlock interrupted curtly.

"But I thought you said you'd take the case?" She exchanged glances with John who showed he sympathized with her confusion.

"I have. Your case has already been solved. What you saw was _not _a ghost. It was a real child, actually an eight-year-old boy name Declan Hayes. Only your photos are of value to me. Be sure to send them." His mind preoccupied with aspects of the case he hadn't disclosed, Sherlock pushed opened the shop door to the street and called over his shoulder, "Come, John."

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	3. Chapter 3 Long Story: PART TWO

**The Long Story:** **PART TWO**

John had not followed Sherlock immediately.

The sulking detective leaned against the wall outside the shop, arms folded, waiting for an intolerably long time—by his standards—wondering when John might appear. The self-described sociopath was not actually surprised by the delay, however; his partner usually lingered for those troublesome social graces like goodbye and thank you…sometimes he even offered apologies.

A full minute-and-a-half later, when John joined him on the pavement, Sherlock gave his partner a curious look, and started walking._ Hmmm. What took so long? He hadn't asked her out for a coffee…too young for his tastes…and too stupid. _Sherlock refrained from impulsively expressing this observation aloud and congratulated himself for effectively filtering a remark that, after it was spoken, would have been blown out of proportion and set John off. _Will thank John later for teaching me this useful technique._

"Dunno, Sherlock." Shaking his head, John followed his partner. "You made her feel foolish."

"She should feel foolish. Her friends' innuendo and talk of superstition made her susceptible to nonsense." The tall man shot a sidelong glance of acknowledgement once his companion caught up.

"So, what was the point of coming to see Lily Lauder if you already knew she hadn't seen a ghost?" John trained his eyes forward as they marched among the pedestrians and shoppers.

"Let me remind you of the principal steps, John," said Sherlock pedantically. "_We must_ approach each case with an absolutely blank mind, which is always an advantage. _We must_ form no theories. _We are_ simply there to observe and to draw inferences from our observations."

"But, you didn't have a blank mind!" John noted in his no-nonsense voice. "How else could you identify the boy? Don't tell me that you deduced Declan Hayes from the news story alone; and certainly not just a moment ago!"

"An astute observation, John," Sherlock enjoyed testing his partner's mental acuity and innate intelligence.

_With time and more training, John might be as formidable an ally in deductive reasoning as he is in medical diagnostics, but the stalwart ex-army surgeon had already proven to be an invaluable touchstone, and better still, a loyal companion… a _genuine _friend…_ Sherlock's private thoughts were arrested by the strong warning: _Do Not Touch—Me!_

John halted mid-stride, letting his friend proceed ahead without him.

"John?" Startled by his absence, Sherlock looked around for his companion.

Now several paces behind, John held his position, his eyes dark with suspicion. "What aren't you telling me?" He crossed his arms and waited for Sherlock's reply.

Sherlock backtracked toward his partner, and despite John's obvious irritation, revealed his news with a cagey smile. "My interest in Lily Lauder's story was a result of a visit yesterday by Alfred Hayes, Declan's father—"

That information took John aback.

"—Wait! Where was I?" Interrupting the narrative, John tilted his head toward his left shoulder in a gesture that, Sherlock was learning, indicated wounded pride.

"At Tesco, battling yet again with the chip and pin machine." The flatmate responded candidly.

"So, I'm out getting _our_ groceries. And you didn't think I needed to know _we_ had a client?" John narrowed his eyes, before shifting them toward a new focus somewhere beyond his partner.

The tall man considered his answer, acutely aware that the truth was not going to yield the results he would have preferred. Still, he remained honest. "You were out of sorts when you came back. Lambasting financial institutions in general, fretting over the condition of the bruised fruit you purchased— because you didn't examine each one more thoroughly before you chose it. Then Harry rang. After you ended that _lovely_ conversation, you stomped up to your room. Later, your dinner plans with…" Sherlock waved a hand in the air dismissively, "with somebody…."

"Mike Stamford," John's voice was near growling levels. "Don't you remember? _You_ declined our _invite_."

"Quite true. Left alone to reconsider the information Hayes presented, it seemed too typical a case; and as you were engaged elsewhere with other concerns, there was no need to disappoint you further with lackluster details that were not worth pursuing. Then Lily Lauder contacted us this morning with an angle that made the case somewhat more interesting. Getting another perspective on an incident, no matter how subjective, is stimulating if you think the truth might exist somewhere in between. Now, I'm certain there is indeed more to the Hayes case. Should I have mentioned this whilst we were in the shop?"

"Sherlock, you could've told me the real motivation before coming here. You had ample time." John palmed his forehead in exasperation, mumbling an aside. "I _knew _you wouldn't take on a ghost story."

"And you were right. I wouldn't and I didn't. It wasn't a ghost story at all."

"That's right, Sherlock. _YOU_ didn't. _Tosh!_ What about all this '_we_ must…, _we_ are…, _we_ should…'? There is no WE! Not if you keep excluding me!" Fists flexing, John spat the words in frustration before making an about-face and marching off—as he often did when Sherlock thoroughly annoyed him—putting a swift distance between them.

Each time this happened, John's reaction was something of an eye-opener for his partner— regarding himself.

For so long, Sherlock was convinced that to remain the perfect deductive-reasoning machine his genius required what he understood to be sociopathic behavior. Nonetheless, after years of honing antisocial techniques, verbally skewering acquaintances, associates, and strangers with his sharp-tongued barbs, he actually wished—albeit, infrequently— he could turn it down, maybe even off. Could high-functioning sociopaths change? The nagging question was, could _he_? Could he turn off the practiced, dismissive behavior that demeaned and belittled everyone—at least with John, for John, who was an exception?

After years of suffering the biting stings of ridicule, and more years of retaliating with bitter scorn, Sherlock realized not everyone was against him, not everyone deserved his harshest retributions, John least of all…because…well because it wasn't right to hurt John.

John Watson _was_ exceptional. Sherlock's simple strategy: "the best _de_fense was a strong _of_fense," that fooled everyone else did not fool the ex-army surgeon. Rather, the consummate loyal soldier gave his allegiance to a cause few would have undertaken. Despite that, the former captain knew how and when to push back, unafraid to stand his ground for his beliefs—a true equal—for whom Sherlock held the highest regard.

Whenever John retreated in the face of Sherlock's often unintended insults, the detective was even more amazed. It took great intelligence and patience to know when to retreat, regroup, and return to battle reinforced with superior strength, and John proved he was a master strategist.

What's more, his stalwart colleague always came back, making the willful loner feel he was not such a lost cause to everyone. Perhaps the doctor saw something in him worth fighting for.

Ordinarily, Sherlock would have allowed John the liberty to walk off. Even if he hadn't understood the reasons, he usually recognized the army doctor's menacing mannerisms—_Do not touch_. However, now, as he watched his angry partner retreating, curiosity urged Sherlock to employ a different tactic. Wordlessly Sherlock caught up and quickly matched strides. Whilst John must have been aware of his presence, the offended man didn't acknowledge him.

Walking beside John in unusual silence, Sherlock considered how John had become his window into fascinating and fresh views of humanity. John's interpretations of Sherlock's observable data afforded insights about human nature that had long been elusive to his genius. Through his highly-principled companion, the detective had been acquiring an understanding of social norms, what were appropriate cues when dealing with ordinary people, and how acceptable behavior ought to be communicated. Not that Sherlock had chosen as yet to change his ways, but an understanding was developing. He had learned to recognize that even non-geniuses seemed to feel the need for isolation on occasions, the _Do Not Touch_ signal—although they called it privacy—such as John was now demonstrating.

_This mood change and desire for privacy is a result of my provocation,_ Sherlock surmised. Uncertain how to make amends, he instead resorted to diversion. "Are you aware you're going the _wrong _way?"

John stopped suddenly. "Sod off!" he muttered softly, avoiding a public scene, and cut another about-face in the opposite direction toward Brunswick Square Gardens. "I don't care what direction is _right _or _wrong_. Don't you realize I'm trying to get away from _you_?" There was no mistaking the white-hot resentment wafting on his hoarse whisper.

Spinning one-eighty degrees, Sherlock regained his lagging steps to tag alongside John.

"Bollocks! You really don't get it!" John rasped, keeping his face turned and his arms by his sides.

"No," Sherlock answered in a low voice. "Explain, _please_."

Once again the doctor halted, this time at the entrance of the Gardens. Although Sherlock had outpaced him like before, the detective quickly spun to face his partner. Curious, Sherlock met the furious eyes of John Watson.

"I don't like being a _useless_ idiot...," John said between clenched teeth, his chin thrust up in defiance, whilst his hands were tucked securely under his arms as if to keep them from striking out.

Noting the bristling posture of his partner, Sherlock nodded his head thoughtfully in agreement. "I should think no one likes being a_ useless_ idiot, but since nearly everybody is an idiot, being a _useless_ one is indeed most undesirable, although there are very few _useful_ ones in my opinion."

John blinked, bewildered by the literal echo until he realized Sherlock did not get his inference. "Then why do you treat me like one?"

Sherlock pondered the question as he further observed the tightened muscles in his partner's jaw and the frown forming a dark cloud over the doctor's face. Redirecting his gaze into the park, he stared at the spring greenery on the May afternoon as if the Gardens held the answers he sought.

The thought had never occurred that he denigrated his flatmate. He simply hadn't considered that John _wanted_ to be included in every aspect before deciding to take a case. Most normal people could not take the tedious details of his intricate analysis. Because of this he utilized John in his mind; John's perspective was his sounding board, John's voice the constant in his head. It pleased him to realize now that John wanted a share in the process.

With his gaze resting on the upturned face of his scowling companion, he stated the plain facts; "I _presumed _you understood your importance in my decisions.… I consult with you _constantly,_ John, maybe not always aloud or when you are physically present. I thought merely to spare you the complexities of my thought process, described by many, and I quote, as 'unfathomable,' 'dreary,' or 'ridiculous.'"

John snorted a laugh and hid his face with a quick drop of his head.

Sherlock studied the downcast head, unable to decipher the meaning of the laugh. Without a view of his partner's honest countenance, that was so often more expressive than words —even to the socially challenged—the detective felt uncertain.

Several seconds elapsed before John raised his eyes to meet his partner and deadpanned. "So if you were against taking the case, what did I say to change your mind?"

_Was he being sarcastic or facetious?_ Leaning back for a better perspective of John's suddenly expressionless face, Sherlock formed an uneasy grin, hoping he was interpreting correctly. "Your contribution was_ most_ compelling. You simply asked _why_."

Brows rising on his forehead, John offered an encouraging smile, which his words confirmed, "Go on."

Finally granted permission to share his internalized conjectures, Sherlock directed John into the park as he explained the basic case:"At first it seemed a custody battle between divorced parents of eight-year-old Declan. A 'he-says she-says' tug-of-war, with alcohol at the root of the breakup. On Friday night, Declan was found wandering in the streets, near the 'ghost-in-the-window' building, whilst looking for his father from whom he had separated during their evening together in Coram's Fields Nursery. Later that night, his father was found disoriented, presumed drunk, but not disorderly, sitting on the ground in Brunswick Square Gardens."

"Not everyone who appears drunk _is_ drunk," John offered. "Granted, he may have a problem, but before jumping to conclusions, a doctor would verify that there weren't other underlying medical conditions like diabetes, epilepsy, side-effects to contraindicative meds, onset of vertigo or concussion…"

"Precisely what _you _said…,"Sherlock paused and then offered a correction, "in my mind; but I was still concerned it would involve us in a no-win domestic, and you know how I loathe domestics."

"What were his blood alcohol levels?"

"Zero. _You_ were right, he wasn't drunk. But I still hesitated because he recovered without medical intervention, his symptomatic disorientation was temporary."

"That only means his condition was not pathological, but it could have been introduced or induced by other agents…"

"Of course, John. Again _your_ input proved illuminating. _You_ had just made that helpful suggestion when you returned from dinner. Needless to say, I did not congratulate you aloud, because after all, it was a mental argument I was holding on my own with _you_. There was no need to introduce the topic. We were done for the moment."

"So, on those occasions," John said slowly, piecing it together, "when I return to the flat and see you on the sofa with your eyes closed, hands steepled under your chin, I should assume you're talking to me?"

"Well, not always." Sherlock squinted with amusement, "but, often. However, you might care to note that I had concurred with _you_ _how_ it was done: his drunken state was caused by outside means, if not alcohol, then tainted foods, inhaled substances, or drugs whether illicit or prescribed."

Disconcerted, John muttered, "Doesn't seem you really need my input in person, if my answers were so predictable in your imagination."

"My preoccupation on the 'how' brought me to the gift shop today, but you—the real you— asked the question I hadn't considered; Not just _how_ did this happen, but you asked WHY did this happen?"

"You mean the living breathing version—the one talking to Lily a little while ago…?"

"Yes, John! That made the difference. All human nature seems peculiar and odd to me. Normal or abnormal behavior is relative to a social order that is mindboggling at times. The _hows _of a case are much easier for me to deduce than the _whys_. However, when _John Watson_ thinks something is odd, and _John Watson_ wonders _why_, then it must be out of the norm—unusual—because you, John, epitomize the ordinary; you comprehend the social norms. You are the common voice of everyman."

"Don't like the sounds of _ordinary_ or _common_ or _everyman_."

"These traits are of great value to me," the detective confided with candor, "because I sorely lack them. This makes you extraordinarily useful."

After a baffled glance at his friend, John grunted. "Is there more to this case?"

They had arrived at a spot well inside the Brunswick Square Gardens where Sherlock selected an empty bench to sit; John sat beside him.

"Indeed!" Sherlock nodded, delight brightening his blue-grey eyes. "Around dusk, Declan and Alfred had been spending time together in Coram's Fields Nursery. After a few hours, Alfred needed a smoke and let Declan join some other children in a game, whilst he stood just outside the gate. But shortly after, something made Declan look up. This is all Declan's account, because Alfred can't remember what had happened. It was getting late, but Declan said he saw Alfred flanked by two big men strolling away. Declan knew some of his father's friends, although he had never seen these men before. Hesitating at first, Declan had called out for his father. When his father hadn't seemed to hear him, Declan had grown upset and left the park to follow. Before he could catch up, the three had turned a corner, and by the time the child arrived at the same corner, even though the street lamps were bright enough, there had beenno sight of his dad or the two men anywhere. Declan thought they had gone into the corner building, the one on Guildford Place, not too far from _The Lamb_, the famous old world pub on Conduit. The entrance doors had been locked, so the resourceful boy had done his best and found access through a basement window. The building had running electricity and a silent alarm as a theft deterrent. With the basement lights on, Declan had no trouble climbing through, although he had set off the silent alarm. When the distraught boy had reached the ground floor, he couldn't locate or reach the light switches. In the dark, he had gone to the window, where he had been seen by the young women."

"What does Alfred Hayes remember?" John leaned back and relaxed in the sunshine.

"Not much. That he had been found in an inebriated state is causing more problems with his ex-wife because, as a recovering alcoholic, custody terms required he stay sober. He insists he has stayed sober for two years, and until this incident in the park, he has been clean. All this has been documented with the courts."

Sherlock pointed ten meters to his left. "He had been found in the park, over here—You see, John, when you finally changed course you led us in the right direction. The same Constables responding to the alarm had helped the boy locate his father. Once Hayes had been found and brought to A&amp;E, tests had to be run which took several hours —unfortunately, all inconclusive. Hayes insists he did not drink, but has no memory after he left the park. This is his only defense, which is why he came to us for help." The detective could see his partner's brow furrowing. "So what do you think, John?"

"My impression is that Hayes was sedated somehow. There are all kinds of tranquilizers available. Within ten minutes of ingestion—especially when mixed with alcohol—the tranquilizer Rohypnol, for example, will make an individual have slurred speech, impaired judgment, difficulty walking, memory loss, and appear completely uninhibited and intoxicated. Did Hayes say if he ate or drank anything? Were his cigarettes a brand name?"

"Doesn't recall eating or drinking anything. No wacky baccy; Marlboro his brand of choice—and a brand new pack. He had opened it exiting Coram's Fields."

"Hmmm. If he hadn't drunk or smoked something to cause the symptoms, then we must look to the mechanism of delivery. I'd rule out a topical cream, even a needle scratched across the skin which might cause someone to feel a bit squiffy, isn't enough to put a person completely out. It has to be subcutaneous at least, if not intravenous. Had there been any evidence of a syringe?"

"Reports noted no obvious punctures on the arms or hands. Alfred confirmed he had never been a user."

"Each form of tranquilizer has a different timeframe before symptoms occur. So how did it get into Alfred's system so quickly? It _had _to be intravenous, optimum site, in the _neck_. Because alcohol had been presumed to be the cause of his side effects they probably hadn't perform the toxicology specific for sedatives, unless…" the doctor leaned forward excitedly on the park bench. "Had they run a urine test?"

"Urine test came back negative."

"Too bad! With his mind fogged up by the drug, he couldn't have told them he suspected a tranquilizer. They would have had to take blood and urine samples and run those specific tests to detect it. Rohypnol can only be traced up to forty-eight hours in urine."

"Everything you've described explains the symptoms." Sherlock stood up and clapped his hands, energized by the synergy of their verbal collaboration, and ready to move forward on the case.

John also rose to his feet more slowly, unlike his thoughts which raced through medical checklists with practiced speed. "Benzodiazepines or 'benzos,' the tranquilizers that produce this sedative effect, are most commonly associated with 'date rape.' Troubling as it might be, had he presented with any bruising from sexual molestation?"

The detective shook his head. "No such complaints."

"Then why, Sherlock, would a man be targeted with a date-rape drug?"

"Why, indeed, John?" Sherlock grinned broadly. "Perhaps even more interesting; why would eleven men have been targeted precisely the same way within the last two weeks?"

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	4. Chapter 4 Long Story: PART THREE

**The Long Story: PART THREE**

"Here we have it, John." Seated in his leather chair, Sherlock balanced his laptop on one knee and suddenly started texting on his mobile whilst he spoke. "Fortunately, the girlish predilection of Lily and her friends and their proliferation of selfies are proving useful. The date and time stamps of these photos go back two weeks. The same white commercial van with no other distinguishing markings appears in five out of the seventeen jpegs. In each it appears to be idling, if not parked illegally."

"Who are you texting?" John asked distractedly, not expecting an answer from his preoccupied flatmate. His weary head in his hands, John leaned on one elbow at the desk and stared at his laptop. For the past two days, Sherlock and he had been searching through the myriad of online articles, cross-checking the newspapers and tabloids for minor incident reports about vagrants in the city parks. Following Sherlock's requests, Lestrade pulled a few strings and sent the victims' statements to their flat. Although Sherlock counted eleven victims, only nine had filed complaints with the police. With little space left on the desk next to his laptop, these now aptly named _Drunk-and-Disorderly_ files were disorderly on the carpet at John's feet.

No one at the Met seemed to care about the D&amp;D reports falling into the hands of the freak and his colleague. MI5 had bigger concerns.

00000

An inside tip from Mycroft during one of his nuisance visits to 221B more than a week earlier was probably the best explanation why: "There have been security breaches in the encrypted data banks of several hundred millions of people in countries around the world who enrolled in iris recognition systems," lectured the dignified man, posing by the fireplace in his three-piece pale blue suit. "This biometric technology had been touted as both foolproof and convenient, especially when used for purposes such as passport-free automated border-crossings, and some national ID programs. But some masterminds have already found the chink in the armor, it seems."

If Sherlock were listening, it would have been hard to tell. He had availed himself a secluded spot down the hall in his bedroom when Mycroft made his surprise appearance, and although the bedroom door remained open, the younger Holmes sat on the bed working on his laptop, apparently too busy to engage in conversation.

"A key advantage of iris recognition," Mycroft droned on, delicately holding the steaming cup John had offered him whilst propping his elbow on the mantel. "Gads! Must we really keep this stack of papers impaled like this?" He eyed the knife that pinned the bills to the mantel.

"_We_ mustn't, but I must. If it is a problem, you can leave." Sherlock intoned in perfect imitation of his brother's smug remark.

"As I was saying, John," Mycroft disregarded the comments that sailed into the sitting room, "besides its speed of matching and its extreme resistance to false matches, a key advantage of iris recognition was the stability of the iris as an internal and protected, yet externally visible, organ of the eye, ensuring accurate security matches."

"Theoretically it's a sound idea, but there's obviously something wrong with its application," John remarked dryly, forced to show a modicum of civility to the older sibling because the younger was being such a git. "I've been reading up on the pros and cons of iris scanning technology. Fascinating potential, but if the algorithms can so quickly be compromised, I can understand how it would become a serious problem."

Nodding silently, Mycroft raised one eyebrow. His esteem for John Watson also rose. The astute ex-army surgeon continued to demonstrate versatility and a comprehensive knowledge over a broad base. No wonder his younger brother found this unassuming man an asset in his investigations.

"What do you really want, Mycroft?" Standing at his full height with his chin raised in a defiant tilt used exclusively for his brother, Sherlock appeared in the threshold of the sitting room.

"Why do you assume I want something?"

"You wouldn't be here if you didn't. A call or text to me, or John—your usual methods to determine if I am still alive—would normally suffice."

"Why do you bother to ask why, if you think you already know the answer?"

"For the enjoyment of annoying you."

"Well, then your efforts are wasted. Only disappointments in important matters tend to annoy me."

John cringed as he listened to the volley of verbal taunts, knowing it was pointless to intervene.

"So this _is_ a matter of national importance," Sherlock smirked, his bait taken. "You wouldn't be boring John with it if it didn't annoy you."

"I'm surprised I even had to bother coming here." Mycroft placed his empty cup on the mantel. "You are obviously off your game with concerns of the British Government."

"And you're too lazy," Sherlock taunted with cool detachment. "Go back to your ivy-tower before you soil yourself with _actual_ work, the kind it takes to deal with the underworld."

Despite Sherlock's rebuke, Mycroft smiled as though satisfied, picked up his umbrella, and nodded. "Good day, John… brother mine!"

"What did I miss here?" Bewildered, John turned to Sherlock once he heard the front door close behind the older Holmes.

"A white flag!" Sherlock's broad smile reached his eyes, "from the British Government."

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Working on the D&amp;D files, John finally found proof of the pattern that Sherlock from the onset had insisted was evident.

"Sherlock, so far, I discovered similar reports going back the last four months." He turned to see his flatmate multitasking at incredible speed on both the laptop and phone.

John sipped his fourth cup of tea, now cold and unsatisfying, and continued to report the results of his research. "It seems the areas of Brunswick Square Gardens, Russell Square, even Queens Square Park and Garden have become the latest locations within the past two weeks. You mentioned eleven victims in your initial research. All eleven men fit the pattern with claims of having no memory about how they landed in the parks. Each struggled with disorientation, partial amnesia, and dizziness. Some admitted they were '_out on the pis' _which they blamed for their symptoms, other faulted their meds, or catching flu or '_having_ _lurgy_,' a few complained their fingers were stained …but what's really interesting from the reports, each victim was out alone, not in the company of mates or dates, when they got so thoroughly knackered."

"Isolated from the herd. Good, John!" Sherlock concurred. "No witnesses…until they nabbed the father of an eight-year-old boy at dusk." The ping of Sherlock's mobile, indicating a received text, launched him right out of his chair. "Come, John!" he grabbed his own coat off the peg, then handed John his jacket. "Lestrade's expecting us, and I have a deduction to share."

"Why do you never suggest food first?" John mumbled, feeling his stomach grumble as he accepted his jacket.

"You shouldn't need supper, John." Sherlock answered as he descended the stairs. "You just had _four_ cups of tea!"

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At Scotland Yard, Detective Inspector Lestrade sat behind his desk, his tired face covered with a day's growth of stubble, his lips parted in surprise as he heard Sherlock Holmes connect the dots on minor incidents of drunk-and-disorderly reports across London. A bizarre picture was certainly forming, but whether MI5 would shift units off more important investigations seemed unlikely.

"So tell me, Sherlock. Why?"

"Funny you should ask. John had the same question."

"Let me remind you, mate, D&amp;Ds are not processed through my department." The salt and pepper hair on the close-cropped head shimmered under the office light as the DI shook his head. "Standard procedure both for the Met and the City of London Police may vary, but generally a person deemed drunk and acting in an unreasonable manner, such as passing out on the street will be handled as the circumstances demand. Some may either be sent home; others held in a police station cell until sober."

"But, Greg, eleven men appeared drunk and disoriented in public parks," John reiterated. "True. The police were not always called, but what if they should have been? What if each man had been slipped 'roofies,' Benzos, GHB or similar substances against their will to cause them to appear drunk? Isn't that a crime?"

"Understand, John. It's too difficult to prove a crime, especially when the victims cannot even recall the incident. Excepting for temporary amnesia, no permanent bodily harm had been done, no property had been taken. Wallets, watches, rings had all been accounted for; the victims had found all their money, down to their last coins, intact. Without tangible evidence of criminal activity, we cannot launch an investigation."

"What if I were to tell you it's identity theft, Lestrade, on a global scale!" Sherlock grandstanded gleefully rubbing his hands together.

"Huh?" John shot a surprised look at his partner. "So this is what you meant by a 'deduction to share?'"

"It's the answer, John, to your 'Why?' Thought you'd enjoy the reveal in a group. It makes for _better_ theatre." The detective's mischievous grin was an attempt to appease what had, in the moment of disclosure, obviously become another prime example of his poor timing and judgment, bordering on socially unacceptable behavior.

"_Theatre_! A group of _two_ doesn't make for _better_ theatre," John retorted, but dropped his scowl of displeasure for a low warning. "Next time, cut the dramatics. Share the facts with me first; that's how you work with a partner."

"Give it up, mates!" Lestrade interrupted their hissing dispute with uncharacteristic impatience; his temper had been worn thin by the weight of more pressing cases he put on temporary hold for the meeting with Sherlock and John. "Didn't I just say no property had been taken?"

"There's more to identity than credit cards, keys, and personal pins." Sherlock's exhilaration was riding high, not to be deflated by an irritable DI. "What about biometrics: DNA, blood type, iris scanning, fingerprints? I have proof. Think, Lestrade! With this information you can lead the bust on a ring of thieves in the big business of identity theft. This cohort of scammers running operations by drugging their victims to take biologic information, selling it on the black market—fingerprints, blood types, skin tissue, iris recognition— and hacking into data bases to overwrite the digital records about key individuals."

"Fingerprinting?" John eyes flashed with excitement. "Their fingers had been stained, Sherlock! So they were also being fingerprinted during the abductions."

"Abductions? What are you talking about, John? Sherlock?" Lestrade leaned back in his office chair like he had been forcibly shoved. "Biometrics? Hacked data bases? What the bloody hell is iris recognition?"

"Yes. Now I see." John exclaimed, the revelation quickly making connections that helped him commiserate with the DI's incredulity. "Over a week ago, Mycroft had told us about a global security breach in identification programs —which Sherlock failed to mention, until just now, is connected to our investigation."

"Correction. Mycroft was telling _you_. As much as I was already on that case, his timing couldn't have been more bothersome. Right in the middle of a black market auction—needed to bypass the no-fly alert against my name with a new biometric identity—had to leave the sitting room and still lost the bid."

"Christ! You're on a no-fly list?" Lestrade was finding it hard to keep up.

"Someone is _bit of a mug_ today! No, Lestrade. A phony problem to get a fake identity for an important case!" Sherlock chided, with little sympathy for the knackered DI.

John's dark blue eyes swept toward his friend with a warning. "Maybe I can help, Greg. From what I know in general, iris scanners employ iris recognition technology to provide accurate identity authentication without PIN numbers, passwords, or cards."

John threw a second glance at Sherlock, expecting an interruption, but the detective merely nodded his assent, granting the doctor the floor.

"Iris recognition is an automated method of biometric identification that uses mathematical pattern-recognition techniques on video images of one or both of the irises of an individual's eyes," John continued, facing Lestrade and entirely missing the look of approval that appeared on Sherlock's face. "The iris has complex random patterns that are unique, stable, and can be seen from some distance with iris scanners. It's really quite amazing. Iris-recognition algorithms can recognize up to 200 identification points including rings, furrows, and freckles within the iris. And to think, uploading this information from an individual takes less than two minutes. When used to authenticate that individual at security checkpoints, it takes less than two seconds." John paused as something occurred to him. "Do you remember the Afghan girl on the cover of National Geographic from oh—twelve-fifteen years ago? The striking green eyes? Sharbat Gula?"

Lestrade nodded and Sherlock looked ceiling-ward in utter despair that they had gone off-topic.

"Well, this iris scanning technology is how they authenticated who she was when they tried to find her a few years ago." John bounced slightly with self-satisfaction then a frown creased the doctor's forehead as he added thoughtfully. "Obviously, if this information is being hijacked by identity thieves and used to bypass the government surveillance ID programs or infiltrate databases of health information, this is a serious problem. From what I've read, the loudest critics have asserted that iris scanners can be fooled by a high-quality image of an iris or face in place of the real thing. Maybe this is key to the whole scam—they're substituting the algorithms of one identity for another, but why?"

John paused when he realized he had been talking nonstop and looked at his audience of two. Both Greg and Sherlock appeared impressed.

"Maybe a group of _two_ does make for _better_ theatre," John chuckled modestly. "Now, for the big reveal: I guess I never mentioned I nearly chose Ophthalmology as my specialty. It had been an interest of mine for a long time. Eventually, I discovered I had the hands and the stamina for general and emergency surgery, an area of medicine that opened more doors for me in the army. However, I did choose Ophthalmology as a second specialty."

"What constitutes a high-quality image?" Before he spoke, Sherlock cleared his throat and his appreciation out of his voice.

"The technology for 'iris-scanning' is really a misnomer," John replied. "There is no scanning involved at all. Iris technology is based on pattern recognition and the pattern-capturing is done with video camera technology similar to that found in camcorders commonplace in consumer electronics. Like these cameras, the image-capture process does not require bright illumination or close-up imaging. My understanding is the gathering of data is simple enough. There are rugged handheld devices that allow for simple biometric enrollment and identification anywhere in the field. Once the images from the live video are captured, however the algorithms do all the work, analyzing the patterns in the iris, frame-by-frame, and converting the images into digital templates that are stored and available for ID access. So to answer your question, an HD resolution image is probably sufficient."

"All right, so how do you prove this is what's happening?" Lestrade sighed reluctantly.

"Alfred's case has witnesses," Sherlock rejoined, "Declan followed his father and saw the abduction, and the selfies from silly young ladies who tend to party quite regularly at the pub and restaurant nearby captured images of the vehicle involved. Now all we need is access to the CCTV tapes for specific locations, days, and times, which I have listed in the text/email is I just sent to you moments ago to prove these connections."

Greg Lestrade exhaled, holding off his answer as he calculated the repercussions of Sherlock's assertions and reviewed the list in his email.

"Well?" The impatient detective needled the DI, "Can we have your assistance or do I need to call my brother?"

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	5. Chapter 5 Long Story: PART FOUR

**The Long Story: PART FOUR**

Proof came in several forms one day later.

Once the CCTV videos of the public parks were reviewed, the verdict made by the trained CCTV Centre officer corroborated Sherlock's claim.

DI Gregory Lestrade stood at the head of a long table in the conference room. Seated around him were eight specialists who had been culled for the case from different law-enforcement units, as well as Detective Sergeant Sally Donovan who had been specifically asked to join the team. Sitting next to her were members of the National Fraud Intelligence Bureau: a man, wearing glasses, and two women. Whilst the NFIB women were softly conferring over the contents of their file folders, the man worked on his laptop. They all looked up when Lestrade launched the meeting.

"Our two consultants, Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson, here," Detective Inspector Lestrade addressed his team, gesturing to the pair standing behind him, after the obligatory introductions had been made, "have made a startling discovery."

Eleven pairs of eyes immediately shifted to the civilians. All were curious about the consulting detective team with a reputation for successful investigations. There was something striking about the lanky, taller man who couldn't stop fidgeting; meantime, his ordinary-looking partner calmly leaned against the wall, arms folded.

Except Donovan wasn't curious, given her previous dealings with a man she considered on the edge of psychopathic. Although the others gawked, she chose to keep her eyes focused on her clasped hands resting on the table in front of her.

Bending forward, Lestrade planted both palms on the tabletop with a thud and brought their eyes back to him. His commanding stare which lingered over every face ensured he had their full attention. Then, he straightened his posture and charged into the subject like a man on an exciting mission. "We have here a case of identity theft. Although these crimes were not reported through usual channels with Action Fraud, after evaluating the incidents in light of recent developments, we feel NFIB's criteria for fraud have been met. Therefore we are launching this investigation for a kind of crime that you won't find in the _Home Office Counting Rules For Recorded Crime_ guidelines, but which nevertheless seriously violated the victims' identities."

Lestrade paused for emphasis. "We know the consequences of this—hacked data banks of several hundred millions of people who had been enrolled in biometric recognition systems. It's a global problem. That's why," he nodded to one of the NFIB members, "I'd like to invite Geoffrey Carter from the Bureau to give us some background."

"Thank you, Detective Inspector." The sandy-haired agent with the dark-rimmed glasses was soft spoken, but confident, as though he was accustomed to command. "As many of you are aware, last year the NFIB was officially launched as an integral part of the National Crime Agency and sits as a police unit within the City of London Police. Since then, we have gathered and reviewed reports of fraud and analyzed fraud data in a productive collaboration that has successfully identified serial offenders and organized crime gangs throughout the City of London. We are also in the process of establishing new and emerging crime types. This case might, in fact, be one such emerging type."

Carter lectured with a barrister's finesse, somewhat dry and pedantic, yet full of authority. "However, when it comes to identity theft we have to consider each report on a case-by-case basis. Identity theft is not in itself an offence in law. However the use of another person's identification details (or the use of false identification details), may be. It is the _action_ that is undertaken, using those identification details, that violates the law, and if this action meets certain criteria, then an offence has occurred."

The NFIB members at the table nodded with murmurs to each other, but the specialists remained silent.

Carter nodded toward his colleagues. "I'd like Veronica Lawrence, the lead on this case, to state our conclusions. Ronnie?" Carter extended a graceful gesture toward the red-headed woman.

With confidence Ms. Lawrence picked up the discussion on cue. "We believe that, if the allegations put forth today are accurate," her mellifluous voice was tinged with excitement, "this is indeed a crime of fraud on a large scale and with a complexity that is serious. Among other things, selling biometric information, that includes DNA, blood types, skin samples, fingerprints, and iris patterns, on the black market for the purpose of infiltrating high-security access levels of key personnel is identity theft."

"Thank you, Mr. Carter, Ms. Lawrence." Lestrade called next upon CCTV Officer James Midford to show the surveillance film.

In the darkened room, a large viewing screen came to life with the amber images of London streets about an hour before dusk.

"Here is the location near Coram's Fields Nursery," Officer Midford narrated. "The time and date stamp indicates 19.43 on Friday, 13th May. This is Alfred Hayes, the man in the middle, being escorted by two men toward a white livery van. See here, the men cut behind it, presumably to cross the street. However, they are not seen again anywhere else on the street after they walk behind the van. Slowly, the van merges into traffic and pulls away. A moment later you see a boy run by. This is Declan Hayes, eight years old, searching for his dad."

"It's likely they hauled their sedated victim through the opened back doors," Met Detective Richard Bensen suggested, voicing the general consensus of the room, "since there is no evidence that they crossed the street."

The few officers who sat closest to the tall lean consultant overheard a soft whisper; "It is a capital mistake to theorize before you have all the evidence. It biases the judgement." They turned toward the speaker, who was scrutinizing the film with unwavering concentration, apparently unaware he had spoken aloud. His companion, the shorter consultant, gently tugged on the jacket sleeve of his partner as if to rein in further comment. DI Lestrade merely nodded at them, but did not encourage either to elaborate.

"At 19.47, less than five minutes after," CCTV Officer Milford continued, "a similar van pulled up to Brunswick Square Gardens, although the location where it stopped makes it difficult to see the back doors. Within a minute, you will be able to make out images beyond the van. Here! Notice this group of three men, walking into the park as the van pulls off."

For emphasis, Milford paused the video, isolating the blurry images entering the park. Then he continued. "Even more interesting. They do not emerge as either a threesome or a pair from any of the Garden's other exits. We can only presume they parted and went their individual ways. From the police reports, we know that Alfred Hayes was found sitting on the ground, highly inebriated and needing assistance to stand and walk. Now here are other similar cases based upon the Holmes and Watson list…."

As the Met and NIFB teams watched film after film, the pattern emerged. Each time the video images showed a victim, flanked by two others, escorted a short distance from the contact point heading toward a white livery van. When it was possible to rewind to the moments before, the victim could be seen in various stages of alertness. Some were feeling the effects of too many lagers as they ambled alone on the street. Others had no such stagger when they began their evening stroll. The pattern of attack on these sober victims became clear. Each was apprehended when they had checked their mobiles; the slight distraction of looking at a text or checking a contact became the vulnerable moment for the abductors to sweep down on their prey. It was hard to see what they did to incapacitate their victims, until the films were slowed down. In a reflexive gesture, the victims were seen swatting their necks; immediately after the escorts appeared alongside them.

"Detective Inspector." Keeping within the formality of the meeting, Sergeant Donovan addressed her chief. "Do these victims appear to have been chosen randomly, or were they picked for specific biometric properties….?" Her keen investigative skills were fully piqued by the intriguing aspects of the case.

"We're inputted the physical properties from the medical reports of the eleven victims," Lestrade answered without hesitation. "When the information was available, we collated their blood types, eye color, hair color, skin hues, height, weight, even body type, and are currently running this data through an analysis program to see if there is a relationship, but so far, we have no obvious similarities for victim type. It seems random, but I hope to have a definitive answer by the end of this meeting."

"Can we identify the fraudsters in any of the films?" queried City of London Constabulary, Special Sergeant Matthew Barnes, a particularly fit specimen of mesomorphic excellence, whose suit and tie could not conceal his broad, muscular chest and shoulders.

"At this time we are ascertaining whether we can triangulate our CCTV cameras over a wider area, "Milford answered, "so as to trace their paths to and from the crime scenes. However, these fraudsters were quite guarded and deliberate about keeping their heads down, wearing nondescript headgear with bills or brims that cast shadows on their faces, effectively preventing facial recognition."

"It's even harder to determine their body types," the CCTV officer continued, "whether ecto- meso- or endomorphic. Their loose-fitting clothes were generic and dark, with no tags or identifying marks. In my opinion, the evasiveness of their on-film actions indicates the mates knew what they were doing. We have our techs running recognition software analysis anyway to see if their body motion can help distinguish type. The only consistent fact we have at this time is there was always a nearby livery van that seems to pull away from the kerb immediately after the three men cross behind it."

"Five more minutes for Q&amp;A," Lestrade checked the clock, "then, we'll break into assigned teams for counter-measure operations —yes!"

An aide interrupted, rapping on the glass panel of the conference room door to get the DI's attention. With an encouraging nod from Lestrade, the young man in City Police uniform opened the door, hand resting on the doorknob, the other holding a report, as he leaned in.

"Sorry to disturb you, sir. I was told this is relevant …," he stepped hesitantly forward, whispered his full message into Lestrade's ear and showed the Met DI a document. The information the DI heard and read made his lips twitch softly. "Thank you, Tate," Lestrade said, his voice suppressing all emotion, and closed the door. The messenger sped off.

"Good news, Lestrade?" The tall consultant boomed with a voice like thunder.

"No, Holmes! We've have _great_ news!" Lestrade raised his gravelly voice and one triumphant fist; his delighted expression was unmistakable as he skimmed the report in his other hand. "The M.O. alert went out to all units last night. Any incident that fit the modus operandi was to be considered of interest: Last night, two more D&amp;Ds were brought to cells, one at about 01.00, another at about 03.00. Both men have no memory of how they arrived in local the parks, Queens Square Park and Garden, and Bloomsbury Garden, respectively." His grin grew with each statement. "Again, there was no tangible proof of a crime. Police inquiries show none of their personal effects were taken or even used. For both, neither the data usage on their phones nor their credit cards showed any activity during the intervals they claimed to have amnesia. As of early this morning, the victims had recovered enough to understand they may have been the victim of a crime and to give permission for the specific tests we required."

With a deep smile rarely seen on the careworn face, Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade finished: "The medical report states, among other things, 'a cocktail of tranquilizers tested positive in their urine.' We've got our proof, evidence that will stand up in a court of law. Now, let's nab these _bastards_!"

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From past experience, Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade knew; between identifying the mission and its actual deployment there was often a great chasm of time and resources. Building a bridge across this divide required quality materials: a solid foundation of confidence, piers of patience, and planks of perseverance, all fastened by faith.

Sometimes, faith was all he had.

Once the news broke about the two latest victims, MI5, City of London Police, and NFIB police forces converged in the conference room. As it was now suspected these incidents had overseas connections, MI6 joined the investigation.

Daily these contingents of British law enforcement declared war on the insidious enemies that lurked not only in the shadows of London, but Great Britain and beyond. Rarely was it simple, but this case teased them with promises of success. With hope, they convened to analyze the intelligence. Initially the effort was plodding and methodical. Their strategic maneuvering of available resources was challenging, and manpower, that had to be shared with other units also claiming topmost priority, was limited. Sometimes these vigorous negotiations came down to the proverbial pissing contest.

Several hours later, they had a cohesive plan, with redundancies built in as back-ups, and a means to implement it as quickly as possible.

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	6. Chapter 6 Long Story: PART FIVE

**The Long Story: PART FIVE**

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After Lestrade made his big announcement, neither Sherlock nor John was permitted to stay and listen, nor participate in the planned operations. Whilst their insights had been welcomed, their input was finished. The matter was now official business for trained operations personnel only and they were specifically instructed to stay out of harm's way. Summarily, the consultants were handed their coats and expelled from the "war room," with the promise that once the plan was in motion, the perpetrators apprehended, and the game played out, they would be permitted to witness the interrogation.

It was the best Lestrade could offer under the circumstances. John understood and nodded, but Sherlock was unusually silent, his eyes vacant, apparently focused inward, searching his Mind Palace.

Eyeing his distracted partner as they left the Yard, John brought up a nagging concern of his own. "We still don't have a clear understanding of the mechanism used to deliver the sedative. I'd like to review the medical findings on the two recent victims, check their puncture wounds, which I suspect are on their necks."

They walked along Victoria Street as the doctor clarified his thoughts by stating them aloud, even if the other person wasn't actually listening. "The wound will tell me length and gauge of the needle, whether it was administered by hand or with a propulsion device, like a dart gun used to tranquilize animals. The more I think about it, the more likely it seems that force from a device would sink the needle deeper with more instant effect. That's settled. It's best if I go back in for copies of the reports. I don't think it's interfering if I work on the medical end of the case ….Are you listening to me, Sherlock?"

"Good."

"Succinct doesn't really suit you."

"Go. Good idea. Thoughtful plan. Talk to the doctors. Read the reports. Text me later. Now, I need to think. Will take the first taxicab."

"I don't need a taxicab. Wait, Sherlock," John's urgent voice and light touch on his partner's coat sleeve brought the great thinker's distant gaze back into sharp focus.

"Do me a favor." The doctor entreated with genuine concern, his eyes studying the tall man's countenance, hoping to see the friend behind the usual mask. "Let the experts set up the sting and patrol the territory. Let the police deal with its own business of operation. Your investigation brought them to this point. You can step back and watch now, vindicated once again. You _solved_ the case. You don't have to go for the kill."

"You know, John, my confidence is not high—"

"—that is unfortunate," the doctor interrupted, "because our law enforcement agencies have done a bang-up job maintaining order for years. With or without you, they can handle this."

"Not as well."

Seeing Sherlock's grimace, John continued. "I'm not going to get into an argument about this. Listen. You've got to trust others to do the jobs they are _trained _to do. This is not your game anymore."

Sherlock chuckled as a sly look appeared on his face. "John, if I really want to know their plan, I can torture Mycroft with my petulant tantrums. Displaying total disinterest in the affairs of state tricks him every time." A quirky smile dimpled his cheeks with deep amusement. "He wouldn't be able to hold back if I declare everything he says as nonsense. What fun! Then wouldn't Lestrade be gobsmacked if I swept in ahead and apprehended the ring of thieves myself…"

"They've made it perfectly clear. Your obedience is paramount. Don't get in their way, Sherlock!" John shook his head. "And here you go with 'I' and 'myself' again."

"It wouldn't be 'I' and 'myself' if my partner could be convinced to join me. Where's your sense of adventure, John?" Sherlock seemed genuinely surprised, brow furrowed. There was something else behind the doctor's caution.

Doubt flickered in John's eyes, as if the appeal was indeed tempting, but his soldier face returned. "Orders are orders. Or there'd be anarchy."

The two partners locked eyes momentarily, studying the other, before the doctor sighed. "Don't you see? This may be out of your element. You could become a target, a casualty, a victim yourself. Please, for me." John dropped his gaze and swallowed hard, as if he suddenly realized he had inserted a personal feeling into an argument he should have been able to win using logic alone. He shook off his awkwardness, lifted his head with pride, and rolled his shoulders back with a new boldness. "Yes, for me, please, watch your back."

Without waiting for an answer, Dr. John Watson made an abrupt about-face and marched off, hoping the blush that rose to his cheeks had not been observed by the detective.

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John spent the remainder of his day tracking down medical files and A&amp;E reports, talking to physicians and paramedics, either by phone or in person. He called upon several veterinarians who cordially discussed with him the kinds of tranquilizer guns available for small and large animals and the rate at which the sedatives would work. By the late afternoon, he settled himself at St. Bart's, with permission from Mike Stamford, to use a spare office for reviewing his notes. After which, he held a short consult with Molly Hooper, an ME he could always trust, who confirmed his conclusion. John was absolutely certain about the sedatives and the delivery mechanism. A small, hand-held retractable dart gun, with hair trigger, was the device used. For the doctor, it was a long, but productive day. Yet he was pleased with the thoroughness of his investigation and his progress. For a moment he imagined his dedication would actually impress his partner. Of course, Sherlock often came to his own conclusions in a matter of seconds with one look.

_'On my way. Where are you?'_ John texted after he hailed and climbed into a taxi.

_'Out.'_ The reply was instant.

The doctor didn't like the evasive answer. _'Out where?_'

_'On a case.'_ Almost immediately, a second text came in: _'OUR case.'_

Although he was not sure why the answer troubled him, John had one solution for getting better feedback from his partner. _'If you don't call me now, I will call you now.'_

John knew Sherlock preferred texts because they were less disruptive than a ringing phone, especially if the detective was somewhere he didn't want to be detected…like a stake-out. Of course Sherlock could shut off his mobile, but that would be like tying his hands behind his back. It wouldn't be something he would do willingly. John couldn't help fearing that, despite his warning, Sherlock stealthily insinuated his way into the identity theft operation, working solo, and walking into danger of his own making. John's phone rang.

"What do you want?" Sherlock whispered impatiently. "I only have a moment of privacy."

"To know what you are doing, really."

"Been invited—Lestrade briefed me—eyes only, no engagement."

"Why don't I believe you?"

"I pushed Mycroft. He pushed MI5."

"Nice one, Sherlock."

"Can't talk now. Heading over."

"Hold on! Sedatives are injected by retractable hand-held dart gun. Best at short distances…but someone with good aim can use it effectively even a meter away. You need to know this…"

"Yes. Good. Goodbye, John."

"No, Sherlock. Heading over where? I'm warning you, I'll ring you right back."

There was some hesitation. "Okay. Wait at _The Lamb_ _Pub_ on Conduit."

"Why?"

"It's nearby…." The detective hung up.

Directing the cabdriver to the famous pub, John leaned back on the seat, feeling steamed with frustration, and unsure if his flatmate wasn't just pulling a fast one. John's enthusiasm about his research had dissipated into disappointment. The uncertainty about his partner becoming legitimately involved in the operation—despite his warning—made him feel uneasy, strangely vulnerable, and admittedly, _quite_ envious.

He tried to calm himself and imagined ordering some grub for the gnawing hunger pangs as he waited in _The Lamb_. Restlessness he couldn't shake prompted him to request the driver to discharge him in Russell Square, so he could stretch his legs with a decent walk. It would do him good and clear his head.

After paying the driver, John rolled his aching shoulders and headed toward Guilford Street at a slower pace than his usual lively step. The sedentary afternoon devoted to research made him feel more fatigued than if he had spent the day chasing Sherlock and cases throughout London. Without the benefit of exertion, there were fewer endorphins boosting his mood, so John picked up the pace, and revved up his energy level whilst admiring the scenery.

Twilight had settled, the midday May warmth had chilled, and the air was becoming damp. It didn't deter people from enjoying the edge of night-time. There were men having a smoke, couples linked arm-in-arm, and young twenty-somethings sharing laughter and chatter. The scents of flowers and shrubs wafted in heady aromas that fulfilled springtime's promise.

Something made John think of Lily Lauder's ghost selfie and he smiled at the developments since Sherlock and he met up with her days ago. Who would have imagined that a ghost story of a child's face in an abandoned building would lead them to an identity theft ring?

John slipped his phone from his pocket and checked both for new text messages and the time. No texts...and it was half past ten.

A whistling sound buzzed by John's ear; a sharp pain made him swat his neck.

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	7. Chapter 7 Long Story: PART SIX

**The Long Story: PART SIX**

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The two large shadows Sherlock had been tailing suddenly made their move, gathered speed, and stole up behind their target in Guilford, the lone figure who had broken stride and paused to check his mobile.

In the dim light, Sherlock registered the military strut. _No._

He recognized the familiar jacket that belonged to his friend. _NO!_

One of the men raised his hand in line with the intended victim's neck; then a soft clicking sound from his hand-held device discharged, and in an instant, the marked man slumped. It was accomplished so effortlessly, passers-by never noticed.

_No, no. NO!_

Too late—_John!_

His friend had fallen victim to the assailants. _HOW?_

Alarms in his head clanged, triggering the instinct to fight—to attack John's attackers. The compulsion to affect rescue was nearly overwhelming, yet Sherlock mastered the dread and rage churned up by his friend's dilemma. After all his years of discipline and training, Sherlock Holmes would not let sentiment undermine his reason. He would not let sentiment endanger his friend. This would be a true test—because he cared about John—of putting sentiment aside and using his ability to marshal clear and calculating thought toward a desired solution. Only this would save John.

Sherlock swallowed his livid fury and with analytical detachment took stock of the crime in progress, following the planned operation once contact had been made.

His on-foot patrol partner, undercover Officer Ronald Lark appeared beside him, nodding that the clock had started. They remained a short distance behind to keep 'eyes' on the two men who supported the doctor dangling like a rag doll between them.

Sherlock could not overlook the cruel irony that among the five Met officers lingering in the area as decoys, willing to be victimized in the scheme to apprehend the fraudsters, all were passed over for an unintended and innocent man—and his friend—who by mere happenstance was in the wrong place at the wrong time. _Random! _It supported the conclusion drawn by the Met data—victims were _randomly_ picked.

Lark texted his message alerting all Met units that the plan was underway with an addendum: _'victim: accidental- a bystander.'_

Telling Lark that he knew the victim would not change the immediate strategy, so Sherlock said nothing, although his heart beat harder as he texted Lestrade directly: _'They've got John.'_

According to the plan, Sherlock would follow the threesome whilst Lark initiated operations, contacting the mobile units, advising them to get into position once the van appeared on the scene.

With feline stealth Sherlock trailed the two brawny men who had linked their arms around and across the shoulders of his tranquilized friend and guided him forward. Under cover of the nighttime shadows, they had John wedged like a mannequin in an upright position between them. Even under the streetlamps, anyone walking by might not have given the threesome a second look; if anyone had looked harder, they would have noticed that his partner's feet were dragging lightly along the pavement. Yet, John's abductors didn't have much ground to cover; the white van they sought had pulled into position at the corner.

Exactly as they had done on the CCTV tapes, the men walked behind the van. However, from an angle the cameras had never caught, Sherlock saw them bypass the commercial vehicle entirely. Instead, a waiting black cab had appeared like a nondescript shadow next to the van, and the two men shoved alongside John into the backseat. First the taxicab with its occupants pulled into traffic, followed by the van, serving as both a screen from the cameras and as a decoy. If it were stopped, the van would contain nothing suspicious.

Although through his honed memory Sherlock could recover the number plate, he realized the sequence did not belong to an authentic fleet vehicle_. Yet, another layer of deceit to cover the trail_, he thought with mixed admiration and irritation. _Likely, they had restored a retired taxicab to appear legitimate._

On cue, the unmarked police car pulled up beside Sherlock, who hopped in and directed Detective Barnes to follow the black cab. As they maintained pursuit, Sherlock called Lestrade, informing him about the vehicle swap.

"Got it!" Seconds later, Lestrade's gravelly voice crackled over the police radio as he checked in with the other cars and received confirmation. "All eyes on targets: Donovan, Taylor, remain on the van," the DI commanded. "Lark and Hailey, keep ahead of the black cab. Barnes, stay back and close, do not overtake until further orders." The radio went silent for a moment, before it came on again, this time communicating with the one car. "Sorry about John, Sherlock." The intervening pause spoke volumes. Barnes saw a stoic face when he gave Sherlock a quick look. Lestrade continued, "We'll get him back. Now switching radio to all units; tell us your location."

Ordinarily, Sherlock Holmes resented the Met's meddling in his investigations, but to achieve John's safe recovery, which he knew he could not accomplish on his own, Sherlock would be as cooperative and compliant as necessary. Occupied with broadcasting the route over the police radio proved a welcomed distraction from thoughts of his friend and concern over what they might be doing to him. It was unnerving to the see in the black cab up ahead the focused glow of light needed for a video camera.

"Heading west on Guilford to Landownes Terrace, now right onto Russell Square A4200. Wait, another left onto Russell Square, and they're pulling over outside the Park. This took scarcely three minutes! Oh. Now I see the van. It came by another route." Sherlock's baritone rose with excitement, as Barnes pulled kerb side at a suitable distance behind the taxicab. "It's stopping too. They may be planning a transfer!"

In the shadows beyond the lamp lights, the men in the car emerged from the back seat, leaving the door open as they lifted the limp form of John Watson between them and headed toward the van. The van driver had already opened the back doors and returned to the driver's seat to ensure the fastest getaway once their victim was loaded inside.

At once, police units converged on the two vehicles; bright headlights blinded the van driver and the abductors and a wall of uniforms and vehicles formed a blockade. All stood ready as Detective Sergeant Sally Donovan ordered the driver out of the van and the abductors to freeze. Distracted and hesitant in the face of the force before them, the abductors had not moved, although they still held their vulnerable quarry tightly.

Sherlock had little memory of when or how he exited the police car. Lightning calculations that included all possible angles within the scenario had played out in his mind and propelled him to take immediate action to secure his friend's safety. For it to work, Sherlock had to arrive at his destination first.

Taking the lead with great strides, the long-legged man sprinted at top speed, aware that heavier-built police officer kept the pace slightly behind. Since there had been no time for explanations, Sherlock was glad Barnes' instincts as a trained specialist guided him to follow.

As they swooped silently toward the abductors, the timing was exactly as Sherlock had hoped.

Sherlock blindsided his target from behind with a strong arm-lock and pressure at the back of the knees, buckling his opponent who let go of John. A beat later, Detective Barnes used the same tactical move on the second abductor who released his hold on the sedated doctor. As Barnes' victim crumbled, Sherlock caught John well before he could slump to the ground.

In an instant, the police were shouting orders, commanding the captives to lay prone on the ground as their arms were pinned behind.

"John?" Sherlock steadied the semiconscious man with a supportive arm under his shoulder and carried his friend into the nearby lamp light, gently patting his face, hoping for a response. "John? Can you hear me?" The thudding heartbeat in his own ears made it hard to hear.

"Mmmbbbmmm." His friend flailed unable to steady his head or control his arm movements.

"Mind us, Holmes!" Troubled by the unplanned maneuver from Barnes' vehicle, Sergeant Donovan stomped over, her fists clenched, her forehead lined with anger. Despite her diminutive stature, she shoved her face close to the consultant she disliked. "Get this straight, Freak!" She hissed, but then recovered herself. Pulling back, Donovan spoke in a firm voice. "This is official police business. Do something like that again, and I'll have you dragged off for interference. Is that clear? I won't tolerate you acting out of line again, privileges or no. Now stay back!" She spun on her heel and stormed off toward her unit,

Abiding Donovan's advice for once, Sherlock took several steps back. Shifting his leaning friend's deadweight from shoulder to shoulder, Sherlock had drawn closer to the black cab when an unexpected whoosh and a whistling sound came from within the car. As he turned toward the sound, he felt something graze his neck.

Laying low in the front seat, the concealed driver held a hollow tube—a dart gun— in his hand, aimed through the opened window at the detective. The shot had gone awry, thwarting the driver's only chance to sedate the nearby witness who might see him sneak away.

"Man in the taxi!" Sherlock yelled, alerting the Met units who swiftly tackled the fourth member and dragged him from the vehicle.

Sirens wailed as backup units and an ambulance approached. Within moments Sherlock heard Lestrade barking orders at the scene, conferring with Donovan, calling forensics in as he redirected the investigation to procure evidence on site. Two paramedics rushed over with medical equipment to examine John. The man gently helped him down onto a stretcher, the woman checked his vitals.

"How's he doing?"

Surprised to hear the DI's familiar voice, Sherlock turned to answer, but a slight dizziness made his head spin.

Although in charge of the operation, Lestrade took a personal interest in the doctor's condition, even whilst three officers dogged him with reports. "Just a minute." The DI held up his hand toward the officers, "I need to hear this. Go on, now," he nodded at the medical team.

Paramedic Don Roberts answered. "He's fighting the effects of sedation. Lack of head control, spastic movement of limbs, and inarticulate speech are no cause for alarm, but it would be best to have him checked out thoroughly."

"Well, take good care of him. He happens to be a friend of mine," Lestrade replied. "But, before you take him, I need one of you to come with me. There's a complaint we have to document from one of the prisoners." Roberts and the officers hurried after the DI.

"We'll bus him to the closest A&amp;E. Keep him probably for a few hours until the sedative wears off," paramedic Sue Flynn assured the last person standing.

"No." Sherlock shook his head, realizing a nagging fog was threatening his usual clarity. The excitement all around him had become somewhat muted by a hum in his ears, and his head felt a bit light. "There's been a change of plan due to the nature of this crime. I have on strict authority from MI5 that Dr. Watson must be tested at a government lab facility not the local A&amp;E." The truth was Sherlock Holmes didn't want them taking _his_ friend in _their_ ambulance.

Flynn looked at the detective dubiously.

"Go on," Sherlock insisted. "Check it out. They'll verify the orders. Talk to Mycroft Holmes. He's one of the high-ranking officers... over there..." Knowing he was being anything but helpful, he pointed to a tall man in uniform and spoke with persuasive encouragement. "He'll confirm it. Don't worry. This sedated man is not going anywhere without the proper documentation. And he obviously can't walk off on his own."

Reluctant to leave her possible patient, Flynn agreed to recheck her orders.

Once she left, the detective steadied himself by leaning on the fence and shaking his head. An object near his chin caught his attention. Piercing the raised collar of his Belstaff was a long, sharp-tipped dart. Was this the same potent tranquilizer that had instantly incapacitated the other victims in seconds after contact? Whatever it was, it had merely nicked him. It was but the slightest scratch. And he was sure the effects would be mild, especially if he marshalled his powers of concentration to withstand them. Eyeing it several more times with intense curiosity, he didn't think to dislodge it.

Within moments the investigation escalated amid orders and shouts that affronted the acute senses of the detective. The pulsing sound threatened him with waves of nausea, although he stubbornly struggled to overhear the Met's exchange of intel that confirmed his deductions. Most satisfying was the discovery of the Biometric Rapid Cam. It was mounted between front and back seats where it had been used to capture dual-iris and facial images of the victims situated in the middle seat. Also on the seat were medical sample and fingerprinting kits.

A sudden compulsion to leave the scene before the paramedic returned prompted Sherlock to act. Once she discovered he had misled her, they _would_ take John away. Looking down at his reclining friend who occasionally mumbling garbled nonsense between bouts of sleep, Sherlock hefted his colleague over his shoulder in a fireman's lift, and headed through the gates into Russell Square Park to get as far away from the noise and confusion as his nerves and his waning strength would allow.

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Moments later, when neither the paramedics nor the Met units could locate Sherlock Holmes and John Watson, Lestrade noticed the peculiar text from detective: "All Fine. JWs sleeping it off. Give report tomorrow."

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	8. Chapter 8 EPILOGUE

**EPILOGUE**

**oOo**

"Can you sit up now?"

As the sun climbed higher in the morning sky, John listened and processed the long story, recalling much of what Sherlock had narrated; except, the last six hours were a blank. Sherlock's questions prompted him to edge up onto his elbows and test for dizziness. "Yeah. Better." He rotated his head for a panoramic view of the park, and grunted, no longer from vertigo, but from an afterthought. "So you just picked me up and left the scene?"

"'Fraid so?"

"Why?"

"I was drugged, at least mildly, and somewhat uninhibited."

"That much I get. What was your _motivation_ for removing me from the scene?"

Sherlock smiled with his eyes as he looked far into the distance, and cocked his head. The birdsong of a small robin, alight on the branch overhead, seemed to distract him. When its cheery call ended and the bird flew off, the detective cleared his throat. "Motivation is a bit hazy. I suspect the effect of the drug increased my mistrust of how well the Met and medical crew would handle things. Their reputation for failure became exaggerated in my head, and the noise was deafening, making it hard for me to think of better options." A soft sigh preceded his next remark. "I suppose one can summarize it this way. You're my responsibility, John. Didn't feel anyone could take better care of you."

John broke into laughter, first as a slow roll of chuckles, until it built to a hilarious roar that shook his raised shoulders and filled his eyes with tears of mirth. Joining in, Sherlock's melodious laughter harmonized with his partner's, producing pulses of contagious merriment that turned heads of several others in the park and made people within earshot smile just from the sounds of it.

"A case of the blind leading the blind," John giggled softly. "Since when is sleeping rough in a park taking _better_ care of someone?"

"I admit, in the light of day," squinting with amusement, Sherlock turned his eyes with their unique colored irises toward his friend, "it is hardly defensible." Springing lightly to his feet, he ruffled the black mop of curls, and deeply inhaled the scented air. "Perhaps, we should follow up on the case. I would think Lestrade has some questions for us and maybe even a few answers. I suspect we'll get more information about the long-term uses for their biometric data. They must have been anticipating a more widespread implementation of the technology to target random rather than specific victims." Sherlock stretched his arms and loosen his shoulders.

"It's been seven hours." Offering a hand up to his partner, the baritone voice was gently persuasive. "Do you think you can stand now?"

Fingers touched tentatively at first, as their hands slid together in a solid clasp. Even when John had been pulled to his feet, Sherlock did not release the tight grip. Instead, he brought his other hand to support his friend's elbow, ensuring the doctor's stability. Only when it became apparent John could stand on his own did the man who spent a lifetime practicing "Do Not Touch—Me!" finally let go.

"Ahem! All good." John smiled weakly as he caught a strange look in the luminous eyes.

Immediately, their glances cut away. John looked down and brushed off his jacket and trousers, whilst Sherlock leaned over to retrieve his scarf that had pillowed John's head.

The glint of metal caught John's attention. "Hallo. Sherlock, what's that stuck in your collar?

"Evidence."

oOo

* * *

_A.N. Extra special thanks to Jolie Black who recently stepped forward with Britpicking points that helped me get this right._


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